


I get a kick out of you

by Maggie_Tulliver, SophiaSoames



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Canon Compliant, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Full on Male on Male sexual encounters, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Mile High Club, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut smut smut and more smut, Yup its all smut, toilet sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 22:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maggie_Tulliver/pseuds/Maggie_Tulliver, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophiaSoames/pseuds/SophiaSoames
Summary: It’s always awkward at first. Lots of “Hello. You OK?”s. Manly hugs. Slaps on the back. Hi mate.We have never fucking been mates. Never. Not from day one. Not from that first fumbling kiss in the toilets six years ago. First time we met. It was electric. Like I couldn’t not touch him. Couldn’t not kiss him. Couldn’t help myself from pushing him up against the wall in the toilet cubicle and kiss his fucking plump lips until they bled. All while fumbling with his belt so I could get his cock out and jerk him off until he came all over my hand. Moaning into my mouth as I wiped his come off on my t-shirt. I had to wear his cardigan for the rest of the day, to cover the stains.He looked sad last week. Lonely. Lost in his head, most of the time.  He is not supposed to be like that. Harry is loud and cheeky and wild and crazy. He is also kind and soft and happy and cuddly. He is not sad. Sad doesn’t work for Harry.A set in the present, dirty little porn without plot one-shot on one of those long flights from London to LA where nothing much happens and even in First Class there is nothing much to write home about.





	I get a kick out of you

**Author's Note:**

> tweet @sophiasoames. Be kind. Be nice. Always

Louis

I know Harry. I know all his little tricks. His quirks, his kinks. I always have.

Even after we broke up. When everything went to shit, and I thought my life was over, I never lost track of him. I Never left his side. And I mean that literally. I have always been here for him. As he has been for me. We text. We speak. We hang out. We are just not together anymore.

And I am kind of fine with that. I mean, we work together. Run a business together. Several, actually. We are song-writing partners. Colleagues. Ex-lovers. Ex-partners. Ex-many things.

Which is why what I am doing today is a little bit shit. But then I have always been a little shit. I am a cocky son of a bitch. A manipulative player. A businessman.

I know the fucking rules, OK? I play and I play hard. I follow the rules – most of the time. I know the script I am supposed to stick to. I know what is expected, the things that make the world of show business tick. It’s not always pleasant. It’s not always what I want. It’s kind of the last thing I need in my life. But what the fuck am I supposed to do? This is my job, the only thing I know how to do. It’s not like I can go home and start over. Create a new life. Go to Uni. Can you imagine the headlines? ‘’One Direction's Louis Tomlinson goes to university and fails first exam.’’ It just wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be me. I would be a fucking laughing stock.

Things were fine. Things were good, even. Settled. Until last week when we did this awards show. When I had to hang around with all the lads again. I had to spend time with Harry. Alone.

Yup. It’s always awkward at first. Lots of “Hello. You OK?”s. Manly hugs. Slaps on the back. Hi mate.

We have never fucking been mates. Never. Not from day one. Not from that first fumbling kiss in the toilets six years ago. First time we met. It was electric. Like I couldn’t not touch him. Couldn’t not kiss him. Couldn’t help myself from pushing him up against the wall in the toilet cubicle and kiss his fucking plump lips until they bled. All while fumbling with his belt so I could get his cock out and jerk him off until he came all over my hand. Moaning into my mouth as I wiped his come off on my t-shirt. I had to wear his cardigan for the rest of the day, to cover the stains.

He looked sad last week. Lonely. Lost in his head, most of the time. That cheeky grin rarely came out. His shoulders slumped. His head was in his hands a lot.

He is not supposed to be quiet. He is not supposed to be like that. Harry is loud and cheeky and wild and crazy. He is also kind and soft and happy and cuddly. He is not sad. Sad doesn’t work for Harry.

I do hate airports, though. I hate the smell, the noise. The steady stream of sweaty stressed people hurrying around. I always keep my head down and hope nobody will recognize me.

I try to use the Special Services people as much as I can. You get some overdressed chirpy fellow with an iPad to walk you through the airport. Keeping you away from the normal people. It makes you look like a bit of a twat. You have to pre-book them, though, and I didn’t have time today, so I am on my own. Even millions in the bank can’t always pull strings. It was bad enough that I had to change my flight, and pay the full whack for the pleasure of first class. Only because I know Harry always flies in First. I always go in Business. Cheaper. Less fuss. And at the end of the day it’s a seat and a meal and a fucking pair of eyeshades. That’s all I need really. Sleep. Food. Bum on seat.

I make it to the Lounge in one piece. And no sign of Harry. Thank you, God. I don’t want to see him yet. I don’t want to rattle him. Make him nervous. Make shit awkward.

I know what he needs. I can tell. I know him, remember. Know him really well. And the way he looked at me the other day was fucking weird. Fucking awful. He knows how to push my buttons better than I know how to push his. Just the way he avoided my touch when we passed. The little tremble of his lip. The smirk. That first dimple kind of popping. And nothing else. Like he was dead behind it all. Like someone had turned the light off. That’s not the man I know. That’s not the Harry I know.

I know his Grindr profile though. I have it saved in my phone. Along with all kinds of useful info that I keep there for a rainy day. You never know when you might need shit. I just hope he is logged in. He always used to be, I know. I still know the code for his phone. The password for his email. Not that I snoop around, but he never changes things, and I have a very good memory. It’s handy. Convenient.

 

Harry

I have my favourite chair in the First-Class Lounge, tucked away in a corner. I can swing it around so that I can hide with my back to everyone and get a little bit of peace and quiet. There is also a plug on the wall right in front where I can charge my phone and my laptop and get some work done: fire off a few emails, send my latest pictures to mum, thank her for looking after me and for washing my underwear and for feeding me vegetables these last couple of weeks...

I am crap at living on my own. I mean, I like cooking – buying food, chopping stuff up, chucking it into pots and pans, stirring, tasting, adding a bit more of this and that... But I can’t be bothered anymore. I’m just a bit sick and tired of all the bullshit.

The hostess brings me a glass of champagne. Fucking brilliant. I will now have heartburn for the next four hours. It’s not like I must drink it, but I kind of like champagne. The bubbles, cold and sparkling, trickle down the back of my throat and make me tingle and feel alive.

Buoyed by the champagne, I message the boys on the group chat. We always do when we travel so that we keep track of each other. We are like family, in a way - a fucked up, dysfunctional family of misfits, but a family all the same. Even Zayn, after walking out on us years ago, is still family. We understand one another better than anyone else. How could others even grasp what we have been through together?

Heading to LA. Love, H.

That’s all I write. Liam comes back:

PAYNINDAASS: Here already, fuckface. Lunch next week?

NARRYISREAL: Not leaving home. Comfy. Getting fed. Fuck you all.

Z-MAN: In NY. Catch up later. Safe flight. Love you.

I reply:

Love you too, Zaynie baby. Fuck the rest of you.

Nothing from Louis, of course. The cocky little shit never changes.

I look down again to see if any of those idiots has sent anything else, and notice a Grindr message. I smirk as I open it. It’s bound to be some creepy fat ass businessman in the lounge hoping to get lucky in the loos. Good luck with that, pal.

''Hi sexy. Just wanted to say you look fucking hot today.''

I look at the profile stats. Created today, how very convenient.

I don’t look around. If there is someone messing with me I won't take the bait. I am not interested in a risky-as-fuck, shady hook-up. I mean, come on. I am not that desperate – and definitely not that stupid.

''Fancy a fuck?''

I suppress a smile in case I am being watched, and try to shift in the chair as discreetly as possible to accommodate my predictable semi. Whoever it is has balls, no question about that, but I am still not replying. I close down the app and switch off my phone. Fuck off, wankers. All of you.

 

Louis

He has logged out of Grindr. Good. That means I got to him. Rattled him a little. But most importantly he is now thinking about sex. He is now horny as fuck. Remember? I know how that brain of his works under those angelic curls. Harry is the least angelic man ever. Harry is into some kinky shit. He has sex on the brain most of the time. He just can’t help it. That’s just who he is.

Not that he is stupid or some kind of oversexed slut. Harry was never unfaithful. It’s not in his genes to mess people around. Not even me. I have always trusted him. One hundred percent. I never messed him around either. We have always been brutally honest with each other, which is why we didn’t fucking last. He grew up. I grew up. We just grew. And got lost in life and shit and trying to be mature and reasonable and sensible. It didn’t quite work out anyway. Neither of us ever became a proper adult. Just fucking look at us.

He leaves the lounge before me, clutching that bloody bag he insists on carrying around. It's old. Stitched up at the side. He calls it his lucky travelling friend. He never unpacks it. I can list every single item he has inside it. Hairbrush. Book. (Something he has read a million times before. One of the many well-thumbed copies of his current comfort read). Socks, water, chargers, pills, inhaler. Condoms and lube. All in handy travel-sized containers neatly packed in an airline approved ziplock bag. The bag always used to contain my hat and a spare hoodie as well. I wonder if he still has them. He never gave them back to me.

I keep well behind him walking to the gate. Head down, hoodie up. Incognito. Just another casually dressed bloke in trainers going for a flight. I pop my glasses on, too. Just to make sure nobody takes a second look at me. Me? I am not me. I am somebody else, mate. Promise. You are wrong.

I keep my head down and board last. Just to make sure Harry won’t get startled and do a runner. If he really is not OK he might just get off. Say fuck this and walk. And I know he needs this. So I can’t let that happen.

At least I got the right seat. He is in 1A. Right at the front. I have 1K. Next to him. But with the aisle in between us. Nobody else to worry about. Just us. And 12 other wankers in suits behind us.

The stewardess has clocked him, though. She is all flustered and red-faced and offers him champagne straight away. Smiling like he is made of sunshine or some shit. Yeah, I read Twitter. I know the crap they spout on there.

He is smiling back, though. Charming as usual. Kind, gorgeous Harry.

I kind of scare the living daylights out of her when I push past. Yeah, she clocks me as well. Fucking hell. Better keep this down. Otherwise it will be all over fucking Tumblr in the morning.

So, I just flop myself into my seat, casually throwing my backpack on the floor. I look over and wink.

Bingo.

 

Harry

My heart stops for a second. What the bloody hell is he doing here? First rule of Fight Club: Harry and Louis are never seen alone together, like, ever. Second rule of Fight Club: Harry and Louis do NOT travel together. Period. Not after that flight to Australia where we fooled around in the loo for over an hour and eventually came out to some intense stares and shit. It wasn’t pretty. (It was fucking hot, though; I kind of get another semi just thinking about it.)

Without looking at me, he holds up his phone to show me that he is on Whatsapp.

CockyLittleShit: Fancy meeting you here.

I get my phone back out.

Fuck you. What the hell?

CockyLittleShit: Thought you could do with some company. I’m good company.

Fuck off, Louis. Are you going to behave or do I need to get off?

CockyLittleShit: Get off? I can help with that.

Wanker.

CockyLittleShit: Yup. I can be one of those too. Afterwards I can come all over that fancy cardigan of yours. It looks really twatty. Gucci?

He is an idiot. I consider getting off the plane, but only for a second. Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea after all. At least I won’t be bored, and God knows I have been so bored lately...

I look across the aisle at him and give him my best “I'm trying not to smile but you make it impossible” smirk. “It is posh stuff, Louis. You and your Sports Direct-chic wouldn’t know anything about it. Planning to go on Jeremy Kyle soon?”

I wonder for a second if I that was too below the belt, in light of the cock-up he has made of his life in the last 18 months, but he just laughs at me.

“You should talk, Mr Serious Actor. Learnt how to swim yet?”

Prat. I give in and grin at him – it's 1-0 to Louis Tomlinson. It’s nice not to have to pretend with him, in a way. He knows all my secrets and lies and hang-ups, how I worry about not being good enough, how I'm always half elsewhere in my head, how I fear never quite fitting in and long to belong, but also dread being dragged along with the current or tied down. He always makes it clear he gets it but has no time for any nonsense.

I feel a wave of relief wash over me and lean back in the seat, closing my eyes. I can do this. How bad can it get?

 

Louis

He is smiling at me at last. Relaxed. I knew he would get there eventually. The stewardess comes to take his meal order. Asks him if Mr Tomlinson will be dining with him. He shakes his head but I am quick off the mark.

I flash her my most charming smile: “Mr Tomlinson will be dining with Mr Styles, if that is all right. And I will have whatever he is having. But not the Shiraz he is about to order. Just a Heineken for me, please. Cold.”

Harry looks like he wants to kill me. Then eat me raw. Chopped up. Served with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

I just laugh. He is so easy. So much fun to fuck around with. And the smile he beams back at me is pure Harry. The smile that is both question and mischief rolled into one. One eyebrow raised. Sticking his tongue out at me.

Fucking tease.

I shift across and squeeze into the little stool by his feet. Fold down the table.

First Class is not that glamorous. It’s a bloody plastic table and a wonky footstool. But we do get a white tablecloth. Proper cutlery. Fillet steak with what used to be mashed potato before someone cremated it. Plastic looking vegetables. Yummy apricot crumble. Ice cream and cream.

The ritual feels oddly comforting. I steal a carrot off his plate, because I can. He doesn’t even try to swat my hand away. He pours cream over my crumble without asking. He knows what I like. Like I know what he likes.

There is some ice cream on his lip. Just a tiny smudge. I reach out and wipe it off with my thumb. Gently, keeping my eyes on his. Nothing smutty, no innuendo. None at all. Seriously.

He is fast, though, I'll give him that. Grabs my wrist and lets the tip of his tongue lick his bottom lip. Slides my thumb into his mouth and sucks it hard. His tongue swirling around at an agonisingly slow speed. Never breaking his gaze. Letting go with a wet pop.

My dick has suddenly gone hard. Face flushed.

“Game on,” he says.

And he is not smiling.

 

Harry

I let go off his hand and carry on watching him, enjoying the mild expression of surprise on his face, his pupils a bit dilated, his lips parted almost imperceptibly. I like to shock him. Lou knows that, in my own way, I don't stand for nonsense either, and yet, sometimes, when I call his fucking bluff, it still catches him unaware. I don't know why – he knows I love sex and I am never more than a couple of my legendarily random thoughts away from contemplating how to get off.

I am dangerously close to that stage now.

I giggle, scrunching my eyes and tilting my head back. He loves making me laugh and beams:

“You're a little shit too, aren't you, Harold?”

You turn me into a little shit, I want to say. You and your endless pranks and gauntlets, your sharp edges that only soften for me.

Of course, the stewardess picks that bloody moment to cheerfully, chirpily step in and start gathering plates and stuff:

“I hope you enjoyed your meal. Is there anything else I can get you?” I watch his mouth twitch at the small emphasis on anything as she carries on collecting things and smiles at me suggestively. I know you, I think. What will it be this time? A niece who has been our fan since the X Factor days? (Never a daughter. They think a daughter signals them as unavailable, or, worse, ages them. They believe the tabloid tales of my cougar love, but don't want to overdo it and shoot themselves in the foot). An airline challenge for charity? A more, um, direct approach, perhaps? I am eternally grateful for All The Love, of course, but sometimes it makes you a little weary, frankly.

More mischief: “Yes, please,” I reply. “Could you make my bed now?” I smile back politely as I vaguely shrug my shoulders just for his benefit.

Bring it on, Loulou. We will string this along until you wonder if it was a wise move to start it in the first place. I have been so bored with my life of late, and this is making my blood rush faster and more thrummingly than any stupid glass of champagne the overzealous stewardess could offer.

 

Louis

I go back to my own seat. Harry is standing up, leaning casually against the back of the seat whilst the stewardess is plumping his pillow. Shaking out his duvet. Straightening that sad excuse for a mattress.

I like the thing they sometimes do. You lie down and they kind of tuck you in. The only thing missing is the kiss good night.

Harry gets a little pat on the arm. I smile to myself. That woman so wants him. Bless her. No chance, love. Harry doesn’t do pussy. Harry is all about cock, sweetheart, I’m afraid. Not that anyone knows. Officially. Unofficially, it is the worst-kept secret in showbiz.

I don’t do pussy either. I do usually keep a girlfriend on the payroll, though. For official duties. It just makes life easier. Less gossip. Less shit to deal with.

The lights in the cabin are turned off. It’s like being a kid again. You’ve had your dinner. Now it's bedtime and lights out. No arguing. Just go to sleep. I kind of just lie there. Waiting. Plotting. Glancing over at Harry’s back. Listening for the steady rhythm of his breath. Watching the rise and fall of his ribs.

He is so not asleep. I bet you a million quid that he is lying there with his hand on his cock. His rock hard cock. Thinking about what else he can do to fuck with me. As if the thumb suck, the giggle and then asking for the bed to be turned out weren't enough. Well, he can fuck with me and he can fuck me, too, if he wants. I’m easy. In so many ways. I chuckle inwardly at my own lame joke.

The stewardess comes around again. Just pops her head over the back of seat. Checking up on us.

I know it’s her job. I know she has to. She’s not nosy, is she? Of course she is. Fucking nosy, and then some. They always are. Watching. Looking for something juicy. Some little titbit of gossip. Or hoping for more.

I time her until her next visit. She is back 15 minutes later. Notices I'm still awake and asks if I need anything. I smile sweetly and shake my head. I am a nice, polite young man. Not as charming as Harry, but know how to switch it on, too. When I have to. When it suits me.

15 minutes later she pops up again. Smiles and walks off.

I decide to go for it. I have approximately a quarter of an hour till her next bloody visit. I think I am pretty safe. If I am right (and I am always right about Harry), he is ready to go. I can be fast. I can be quick.

Game on, Harry. Game on.

 

Harry

I feel him shuffle over and gently lower himself to sit on the edge of the bed. My tummy makes a little leap; I smirk without opening my eyes. Playful, mischievous Louis is the best. What have you got for me, Lou? Whatever you've got planned, you'd better make it quick if you don't want us to get busted by Miss Solicitous over there. Whatever you've got planned, I'm fucking game.

“Stop... Pretending.. You're... Asleep.” His lips caress my ear as he whispers oh-so-quietly right up against it. My cock twitches and my smirk shifts into my trademark beaming smile. (I know what that beam does to Louis, does to people. I know, OK? Of course I fucking know. I use it as a weapon – to get what I want, to change what I say, to turn up the heat a notch.) My eyes remain resolutely shut.

“Wake me up,” I challenge him in a whisper. “Make me want to stop pretending.” Make me want to stop pretending, Louis – I am sick of it. Pretending to be happy, pretending to have fun. Pretending to like those LA tossers with their fucking chia seeds and their mutual back-scratching disguised as meaningful contact and their shallow, dull-as-fuck lives. I want to down six shots of tequila with you and dance to some of Steve's racket and throw up on the kerb on the way home. There is no lion's mane for you to keep out of the way anymore but I still need you there.

His hand comes round my waist and sneaks up below my t-shirt, quick as a flash, while studiously avoiding any contact with my dick. My dick, oh my dick. It thinks Christmas has come early.

“Does this wake you up?” he whispers, as he twists one nipple.

“Or this?” Twists the other.

I sigh, a whimper barely escaping my throat.

“How about this?” Scrapes his chewed up nails down my belly. Pings the waistband of my stretchy skinnies. “Or this?” He knows what I like, what I need. He always knows. Cocky little shit indeed.

“Mmmmm,” I nod.

He palms my painfully hard cock. The sensation is of unbelievable relief. “This?” It sounds less like playful banter and more like is this OK? Well, well. Tommo asking for permission. Will wonders never cease.

“Yessssssss...” I breathe out, close to begging. “Fucking yes, Tomlinson. Stop teasing.” I reach down to undo my flies. I'm no bloody shrinking violet. I want – I need – his fist round my cock. Now.

He reaches inside my pants. “Oh God, Harry. You're so hard and oozy already, babe.” Babe... Yes, yes, yes. More. “I love how hard you get. How hard I make you. I love that beautiful cock of yours, darling.”

I thrust a little into his hand. I try to be careful and not make a noise, but I can't help myself and another whimper comes out. I can never help myself with sex, or with Louis. Both together are like fucking dynamite to me.

“Shhhh, darling.” His mouth is still against my ear. “You don't want to get caught, do you? Or do you, a little? Would you like that friendly stewardess to watch you as you come all over my hand? You would like that, wouldn't you?”

The image of Miss Solicitous watching us from her galley – mouth agape, lips dry, knickers moist, as she struggles in the dark to make out what suspiciously looks like Louis' fist discreetly pumping up and down my cock, my hips uncontrollably stuttering into his hand – eggs me on.

How does he always know what will do it?

“Come on, Harry. I know how gorgeous you look when you come. Let her see it, too.”

Seconds. It takes seconds. That's what this little prick does to me.

I start coming and suddenly open my eyes wide with the effort to contain my orgasm and not alert the entire fucking plane (that would be one voyeuristic fantasy too far and some fucking fantastic tabloid headlines). I stare ahead, unseeing, mouth open but no sound coming out. I tense and spasm as I spurt all over his hand. I come so hard I feel dizzy.

He waits until the tremors have ceased, pulls his hand out, casually wipes it on my pants, and wordlessly (yeah, I can hear your self-satisfied grin, wanker) shuffles back to his chair.

I did not look at him the whole time, I realise. The thought makes my spent cock perk up again and I want to fuck him raw. I did not look at him once.

 

Louis

I am back in bed, eyes closed. There might be a cocky smile on my face. So shoot me. Fuck. Fuck. I love jerking Harry off. I love being the one who knows what he wants. The one with the balls to give it to him. Despite the situation, despite himself. I feel high as a kite with the power of it.

Jesus, I am turned on. I need to take care of business. But first... Oh yes, like clockwork. Here she comes on her round. Checking up on us. I pretend to be asleep and watch her through half-lidded eyes. If she clocked up anything, she doesn't give it away. I notice Harry hasn't moved. Don't put it past him to already be asleep with pants caked in dried come. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.

As soon as she's gone, though, he gets up.

“Toilet. Now,” he whispers. He walks past me without a glance.

I sit up. Look around me to check no one saw us. All the First Class suckers are asleep. The stewardess is nowhere to be seen. I try not to actually run to the loo.

I push the door. A disembodied arm sneaks out. Grabs mine and drags me in. He pushes me against the door and his lips are on mine. Instantly. His tongue in my mouth. Instantly.

We kiss hungrily, desperately. I can't stop. He can't stop. We keep at it. Heads twisting around. Hands fucking everywhere. Tongues licking. Teeth biting. Lips sucking. We can't get enough of one another. Same as it ever was.

I force myself to pull back to stare at him. I know it will be good. God, he is so fucking gorgeous. His eyes are glassy. His lips red and swollen. He looks fucking drunk with lust. Clearly that was one hell of a handjob I just gave him. I am proud of myself.

“Turn around,” he rasps out. That voice. The fucked-out Harry voice. I know it well. “Lean against the door.”

He sits down. Spreads his knees out. Grabs my tracky bottoms at the hips. Pulls them down to my ankles. Leans forward and bites my arse check. It is almost painful. I love it. He knows what I like, too.

He strokes my hip. Gently. Soothingly. “What am I going to do with you?” His breath fans over my arse as he speaks. I can think of a million things. I can think of one thing...

“You sneak into my flight, you assault me while I'm sleeping, you get your hand on my dick...” he trails off. He is still stroking my hip. Hypnotically. Almost unconsciously. “How can I repay you?”

Stroke. Caress. Stroke. Anticipation makes me tremble. I am so turned on. You kinky fucking bastard.

Without any warning, he spreads my cheeks wide open and licks my crack, bottom to top. Slowly. Surely. I groan. Not too loudly. I hope.

He blows gently. The cooling sensation makes my cock throb. I groan again. Stick my arse into his face. Reflex action.

He giggles. Fuck, he is hot when he does that. His tongue comes out again. This time it stays focused on my hole. Lick. Stab. Swirl. Suck. On and on. Oh God. Oh fuck. Keep going, Harry. Fucking keep going.

My hand shoots down. Grabs my cock. If I don't start stroking it I will burst.

“Damn right,” he spits out. His voice deep and raw from eating my arse. There is no better sound. “Pump your cock for me, Louis. Hard and fast. Make yourself come while I eat you out.”

Sweet fucking Jesus. I start going at it hell for leather. He continues to lick and suck. Relentlessly. I imagine his face buried deep into my arse as I keep shoving back. I can't last. I won't last.

He hums with unbridled pleasure. My hole is dripping wet with his spit. He pushes his thumb into it. Fuck, that does it. That fucking does it. I start spurting into my hand and all over the toilet door. Thrusting back. Chasing his thumb. His tongue. I keep coming and coming. My knees buckle. I am weak with spent pleasure. Harry braces round my waist. Supports my weight as I fall back on his lap.

I am breathing hard. Deep. My heart is racing. He kisses me on the cheek. “What a beautiful sight that was,” he chuckles. Holds me while I come down. Head against his shoulder. Until I can breathe properly again. Then he pulls me up. Pulls my pants up. I feel like a rag doll.

Stands up. Puts both hands on my shoulders. Looks me straight in the eye:

“When we get to LA – no, I don't care what plans you've got with Oli and the lads, I don't care about Aoki's set tonight. When we get to LA we are driving straight to my house and I'm going to take that sad excuse for an arse you've got these days, you skinny wanker, and I'm going to fuck you for days. Clear?”

He leaves without another word.

I clean up a bit. Run some cold water on my face. Stare at myself in the mirror. “You're fucking whipped, Tomlinson,” I say to my reflection.

I eventually make it back to my bed. Still unsteady on my feet. The stewardess does a double take. I'm sorry, love, but I don't really care.

He is sat up with his light on. Reading some fucking Persian poetry. Of course. He smiles at me. Gives me a thumbs up. All the boredom and itchy ennui are gone. He looks happy. Blissed out.

I qualify my mission as a success.

Just then I see a notification in the Whatsapp group.

PAININDAASS: Hey, Hazza, Lou T. just mentioned that Tommo is on your flight! You should go check him out in Business Class. You know he's too tight to fly First like you, you ponce. Go say hi!


End file.
